Читать книгу The Nanny Solution - Barbara Phinney - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Mitch’s fingers tightened around the fine vellum paper that carried Lacewood’s letter. Agnes had left her estate to Emily, no doubt concerned that he would abandon the infant otherwise. She’d been mistaken but had left him in a difficult spot nonetheless. He needed to tell the bank at Proud Bend that Agnes had passed. The bank manager, a man who had as many scruples as Colorado had oceanfront homes, would expect Mitch to provide him with the proper papers to say he’d inherited her share, but all he had was proof that Emily was now half owner and Mitch was her guardian.

He could contest Agnes’s will but, Lacewood had advised, the judge would ask the reasons. If Mitch was to answer that he wasn’t the girl’s father, the judge would not look favorably on him continuing guardianship and thus controlling the ranch, nor would he give Mitch full ownership and leave the infant with nothing, against her mother’s wishes.

Mitch rubbed his forehead. He had no desire to see any harm done to Emily, nor did he want to smear his late wife’s memory by revealing her indiscretion.

Not for the first time, Mitch wondered about the man who had fathered Emily. No one came forward with a name. No man owned up, either, and Mitch had been too stiff-necked to search for him. He’d had enough to do in Boston, and as far as he was concerned, if the man had abandoned Agnes, he didn’t deserve Emily.

Regardless, he could not lie to any judge, should he contest the will. At his first meeting with Lacewood, the solicitor had pointed out that in the eyes of the law, any child born to a married couple was assumed to belong to the husband. It was only a legal assumption, yes, but it was also best for Mitch to continue with that thinking.

Except for the fact that in Proud Bend, he’d been seen at church every Sunday. When would he have found the week needed to travel east, father a child and return?

He would deal with any questions as they arose. First up, he needed to sell some yearlings to make his mortgage payment. And quickly, too, for last fall, he had seen the wily bank manager smear the reputation of Proud Bend’s haberdasher, thus costing the man his once viable business. Two months later, the bank foreclosed on the store, then sold it for a tidy profit.

If Mitch didn’t make his mortgage payment, that bank manager would do the same to him. Or, more specifically, force Mitch to sell his land’s mineral rights for a song, because the man had already made an offer for them. Mitch felt his face heat and tension rise in him.

He would not be cheated out of what was rightfully his.

Shutting his eyes, Mitch tipped back his head until it hit the top of the seat back. Since he had absolutely no idea what to do, he was left with two options. Pray and wait to see what would happen.

He had already prayed, many times since returning to Boston.

But he was very bad at waiting.

“Are you a gentleman farmer?”

Mitch opened his eyes. Sitting primly beside him, Victoria waited with the calm expectation that he’d answer her promptly. “I beg your pardon?”

She repeated her question.

“No.” He frowned. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“A number of things, not the least of which is the way you speak. It’s far more cultured than what I would expect from a farmer.”

He folded his letter. Roughly. “It’s a ranch, not a farm.”

“What’s the difference?”

Unceremoniously shoving the letter into its envelope, he answered, “A farm is usually smaller, and they raise crops like corn and wheat or various vegetables or fruit. A ranch is big, has strictly livestock, like cattle or sheep, or even horses. They are raised, bred and sometimes kept for years.”

“What do you have?”

“Mostly cattle. Though I do have a few sheep closer to the house.”

“Why?”

His head throbbed and he shut his eyes again. So many questions. “Sheep aren’t as good at fending off predators like wolves,” he answered. “Cattle are better at it.” He paused. “I once saw two cows make mincemeat of a wolf. They charged and gouged him with their horns right before my eyes. If I put the sheep out with the cattle, the wolves would go after them.”

He continued on, with more enthusiasm than he’d expected he would have. “Although, I am experimenting with a donkey in my herd.”

Victoria looked mystified. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. For a moment, he forgot what they were discussing. “A donkey? Why?”

Mitch cleared his throat. “They guard the cattle. They may look like they don’t care, but believe me, they hate dogs and wolves. And they have a powerful kick to them.”

Victoria removed her gloves, tugging one delicate finger at a time. It was fussy little gesture, he thought. And yet, in Victoria’s hand, it was slow and fascinating, a sheer, perfectly choreographed art form in itself. How could ladies possibly wear them for as long as they did? “How did you discover that?” she finally asked. “How long have you had your donkey?”

He blinked. Her questions were in strange contrast to his wandering thoughts. “When I first went West to take ownership of my land, I traveled with an old rancher who’d been on one of the original wagon trains. They used donkeys as pack animals and began to realize their potential as guards for their cattle. He suggested I get one. It wasn’t easy to find a docile one. Most are cantankerous because they’ve been overworked in the mines, but I found one that wasn’t so bad and took her out to the pasture. I haven’t lost an animal to wolves since she’s been there.”

“Are there a lot of wolves?” She leaned closer.

“Some. The rancher who owns the land next to me claims a wolf sired his dog’s pups.”

“Is that possible?”

“Yes, but the resulting animal is unpredictable at best. Not to worry. My donkey keeps my herd safe.”

John stood and tapped Mitch’s knee. “Will we be able to ride her? Like Jesus did in the church play?”

Mitch was surprised at his son’s knowledge of their faith. Agnes had taken the children to church? Apparently she’d been a good mother, after all. But that was all. Still, he shook his head. “No. She’s not broken. I’d have to break her first.”

“Why do you have to break her if she’s not broken?” the boy asked.

Despite his insistent headache, Mitch smiled wryly. “That means you can’t ride her.”

Crestfallen, John sat back in his seat between Matthew and Ralph. Were tears forming in his eyes?

The reaction cut into Mitch’s heart. He remembered when John was Emily’s size. Agnes had struggled to keep the boy full; he was so hungry all the time. He’d learned to crawl early, too, and had developed an interest in dangerous things.

John had been seven when Mitch left to start the ranch, two years ago. Mitch leaned forward. “But I have some ponies, and I’ll teach you how to ride them.”

John’s face lit up. Warmth spread quickly through Mitch, and as he glanced Victoria’s way, he caught her own soft, approving smile. The warmth increased, stopping his breath for a moment. He sat back quickly, clearing his throat and scowling at her.

Abruptly, Victoria looked as crestfallen as John.

She recovered quickly and leaned close. “If you’re not a gentleman farmer, how did you learn to read? I saw you reading that letter. The writing looked difficult to understand. And where did you live that you could learn to both read and to ranch?”

He offered a smile that tugged up one side of his mouth. “My mother had been a schoolmarm for years before she married. She was thirty by that time and quite set in her expectations.”

“Thirty! And she went on to have you?”

“Then my two brothers. And being set in her ways meant that not even my father could change her mind when she said she was going to teach us everything she knew.”

“She would be very proud of you if she saw how well you read that letter.”

Mitch shook his head. “I didn’t read it that well. Lacewood’s handwriting is difficult. He stretches out every letter.”

“Then he needs your mother leaning over his shoulder as he writes.” She smiled. “Where did you grow up? In Boston?”

He folded his arms. Was she saying that Boston was so big that the classes of people would never intermingle? Fighting sudden irritation, he answered, “No. I grew up near a small town on the shores of Lake Michigan.”

“Michigan? I saw a map of our route at the depot. It won’t be so far from us as we travel. Perhaps your family can come to visit you someday.”

“Unlikely. My father has a large farm and is reluctant to leave it.”

“And now you own ranch land.” She turned pensive. “It’s good to own land, I think. I should like to again, some day.”

Again? So she was without money and desperate enough to take the first job offered her without asking about its details. She’d been as desperate as he’d been.

Fine pair. But that was the only thing they had in common. “Even better to own both the land and the minerals under it.”

Mitch shut his mouth, inwardly reprimanding himself for allowing that to slip out.

A frown marred Victoria’s perfect features. “I don’t know what that means.”

“No one has the right to mine my land. It was a provision allotted to a few ranchers at the beginning of the process of selling government land. It stopped after someone realized what exactly they were giving away.”

“What were they giving away?”

“The right to own all the coal, fine stone and such. All the minerals that are underground. And the rights to do with them as you please.”

“But the government is building the West. It doesn’t seem fair to hoard it.”

Mitchell frowned at her. “What do you think should be done?”

“The minerals under your land should be mined. I hear the gold rush has helped Proud Bend prosper. Shouldn’t we do this to help our country?”

She couldn’t be that naive about big business, could she? Was she really hinting that he should give away his rights for the good of the country?

“I mean,” she amended, “you should at least look at what’s there.”

“A prospector already did a good assessment. I know exactly what’s under my land.” There was coal and silver as well as a small amount of gold and gemstones, the prospector had told him after surveying the sharp gully at the western edge of the north pasture.

“Then why aren’t you mining?”

“I don’t believe we should tear apart a land to extract a few tons of whatever is under it. The beauty of God’s creation should count for something. And the land above needs to feed cattle. I’m not hoarding anything. There are plenty of mines. I just want to have the right to do what I feel best for my land.”

“Will you ever mine it?”

This was a subject he didn’t want to deal with right now. “I’ll probably lease out the rights for a short time, but I’ll stipulate that they cannot destroy my grazing land, which will mean no one will want to touch it.”

“But isn’t it building the West?”

“So is ranching and farming. We need to eat more than we need iron or gemstones.”

Her brows raised, she looked impressed. “That is true.”

He sat back, surprised she didn’t argue with him. It was difficult enough with that banker wanting those rights. On several occasions, Smith had told Mitch he wanted to purchase them. Each time, Mitch had refused, but the pressure mounted.

Feeling his head pound at the thought of the stubborn banker, he quickly changed the subject. “As I was saying before,” he told Victoria, “when my mother married, she had to retire. But she still had that need to teach. My brothers and I didn’t have a chance to be ignorant.”

“And a good thing that was.” She laughed, the merriment sparkling in her bright blue eyes.

Despite his headache, his mouth curled up into a smile, too. It must have been the rocking of the car. Or was it the sense of adventure now that the stress of the past week was gone? He could set aside the worry of dealing with the bank for at least the next few days. Whatever the reason, the warm coziness offered at that moment with Victoria, despite how she’d peppered him with questions, appealed to him. Without forethought, he leaned toward her again. “It would please my mother to know that you thought I spoke like a gentleman. I will have to include that in my Christmas letter to them.”

* * *

Victoria felt her merry expression slide away. Mitchell wrote regularly to his mother? Should she do the same to hers? Although they’d parted amicably, mostly due to Victoria’s determination to let go of any hard feelings, and partly because of her mother’s awkward relief, Abigail’s abandonment still stung her.

But she should write her. With Charles’s death, the care and control of Victoria’s inheritance should have fallen on Abigail, but since everything had been squandered, Mr. Lacewood had said that he would not bother Abigail with any more details. Victoria would turn twenty-one in a few months, probably before everything was finalized. If there was anything she didn’t understand, Mr. Lacewood had added, she could seek out her Uncle Walter’s advice. He’d even mentioned that they’d known each other in college years before. Walter would help Victoria.

But that wasn’t Victoria’s option of choice and she decided to say as little as possible on the matter. Soon enough, there would be no legal reason for Walter to assume control of her affairs. Besides, she wasn’t her mother. She was quite willing to take on the administration of her finances, such as they now were.

An unchristian thought popped into Victoria’s head. She could withhold any news from her mother. Keep her fully in the dark.

She tightened her jaw. It was a vindictive idea, though it lingered for a mere second. Could she really be that cruel?

Mitchell caught her attention as he shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket. She’d been watching him as he read, as she’d said earlier, but she hadn’t mentioned his deepening frown. Despite the cozy moment they’d just shared, something in that letter still bothered him.

What was it?

She sat back. It wasn’t her business, nor did she want it to be. There was already too much shared knowledge between them. His quiet suspicion when she revealed her silly plan for employment proved that much. Victoria tightened her jaw. She knew she couldn’t live off charity forever and knew she would never survive without a more substantial plan.

She had only one choice. She would settle in first and then ask around. Even a job as a store clerk would suffice, especially considering Uncle Walter’s plan to have her marry his business partner. Victoria felt her face heat, and she glanced over at Mitchell. Thankfully, he didn’t notice. She with her careful observation and he with his suspicion, they were proving to be quite a pair, reluctant bearers of each other’s secrets. It would be better if they stopped learning so much of each other’s business. It was quite unacceptable.

“Well, your ranch sounds very interesting,” she said in a clipped tone, effectively ending the conversation as she deliberately turned her attention to anything but him.

The train wended its way around some rolling hills, the trees’ lovely fall colors beginning to wane. The children grew bored of their game and their eyelids sank. Thankfully. She had no idea how to mind four children and a baby for three days.

Before long, Emily began to fuss again, her legs pulling up and her face scrunching into a pained expression. Victoria reached for her and to her horror realized the child needed changing.

In her haste to punish her mother, she’d leaped into a situation she hadn’t fully appreciated. Lifting the baby up, she knew they needed to visit the washroom first. Victoria threw a slightly panicked look at Mitchell, but the late nights with the baby and caring for his other children had taken their toll on him. He was fast asleep.

The porter passed at that moment and she asked him for another bottle of warm milk. He nodded and continued forward. The woman across from her stood at the same time Victoria stood, her expression knowing as her nose wrinkled. “If you nursed your baby, that mess wouldn’t smell so bad.”

What a crass remark. Victoria battled the embarrassment she knew she shouldn’t feel. “I’m not her mother. The baby’s mother died giving birth.” She lifted her chin and continued. “I’ve been employed to assist with the children.” There, she’d said it again. She’d been employed.

Would it get any easier?

The woman’s gaze softened as she looked down at the dozing children. “They’re motherless! Poor things.” Unexpectedly, the woman rolled her gaze up and down Victoria’s outfit before allowing it to drift over to Mitchell. “A mighty fine father he is.” She flicked her head to her husband, who sat with his chin to his chest, his eyes closed. “This one has yet to hold our baby.”

The woman then narrowed her eyes. “So you’re not his new bride, eh? Gives me hope if I ever get rid of this layabout.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. Good gracious, how was she to answer that? “I—I need to change the baby before the milk comes.”

The woman stopped her passage, her raw-boned features tightening in an intense stare. “My doctor told me that my milk ain’t no good and that new stuff they sell is better. But I can’t see how God would give us something bad for our babies. Too bad you can’t nurse her. I’ve always had plenty, I keep telling my husband.”

Still horrified at the unrefined topic, Victoria looked down at the woman’s baby as it rested comfortably in a basket tucked between the facing seats.

At a sharp turn, the car rattled back and forth, causing both women to grab each other. After the train returned to its usual rhythm, the young mother’s fingers lingered on the smooth fabric of Victoria’s smart outfit. “That’s a lovely thing you’re wearing. And a fine cut to it. Ooh, I’d do anything to own something like that.”

A smile grew on Victoria’s lips as the idea formed. “You don’t say?”

* * *

Mitch awoke slowly, with great resistance, as if being pulled from a pit of thick mud. The car was warm, suppressing his desire to rouse. Though he eased open his eyes, he still kept them hooded. The train’s rhythm made it easy to just sit there, his head rocking slightly as he leaned against the window. He felt as if he’d slept all night, but the setting sun blazed through the windows on the opposite side of the train. He’d slept for only a few hours, for the fall days were short.

Below, he could see Emily sleeping in her basket, a look of contentment on her face. And across from him, he noticed Matthew and John playing a game. Scratch cradle, by the looks of the taut string Matthew held. John was trying to maneuver his fingers inside to pull up on several lengths at once.

Beside him, Mitch noticed with his eyes still only half open, sat Victoria. She looked stunning in a warm, rose dress, the color practically glowing as the setting sun now cast gold and orange upon it. She had Ralph on her lap, and together they held the string of their own game of scratch cradle. Across from Ralph, perched on the opposite seat, was Mary, listening carefully to Victoria’s soft instructions on which strings to pluck. Because of the heat, all the children had abandoned their coats and hats.

Wait. Opening his eyes more fully, Mitch frowned at Victoria. A warm, rose-colored gown? It was flattering on her, but that wasn’t the gown she’d been wearing when he’d dropped off to sleep.

Did she think that afternoon dresses were necessary even on the train? Had she continued the old-fashioned habit of wearing certain attire depending on the time of day?

His frown deepened as his gaze expanded beyond her. The sun chose that moment to tuck itself behind a rolling hill, and he could see more easily the woman who’d been eclipsing the burnished rays of early evening.

That young mother across the aisle wore a dark green outfit. Even now, she sat preening herself, smoothing some imaginary wrinkle or untucking an errant line of lace.

He straightened. Was she wearing Victoria’s fine clothes?